THE LAST OF LONELY RANCH
There are moments which come in all lives when calm reflection is
powerless to influence the individual acts; when calmness, even in the
most phlegmatic natures, is impossible; when a tide of impulse sweeps
us on, giving us not even so much as a breathless, momentary pause in
which to consider the result of our headlong career. We blunder on
against every jagged obstacle, lacerated and bleeding, jolting cruelly
from point to point, whither our passions irresistibly drive us. It is
a blind, reckless journey, from which there is no escape when the tide
sets in. We see our goal ahead, and we fondly believe that because it
is ahead we must come to it. We do not consider the awful road we
travel, nor the gradual exhaustion which is overtaking us. We do not
realize that we must fall by the wayside for lack of strength, nor
even, if our strength be sufficient to carry us on to the end, do we
ask ourselves, shall we be able to draw aside out of the raging
torrent when our goal is reached? or shall we be swept on to the
yawning Beyond where, for evermore, we must continue to struggle
hopelessly to return? Once give passion unchecked sway, and who can
say what the end will be?
It was at such a moment in her life at which Prudence had arrived. Her
mind was set upon an object which absorbed all her faculties, all her
brain, all her feelings. Had she been able to pause, even for one
moment, reason must have asserted itself and she would have understood
the folly of what she was doing. But that moment was denied her. All
the latent passions of a strong nature had been let loose and she was
swept on by their irresistible tide. She believed that she was the
appointed avenger of the man she had once loved, and that this duty
unfulfilled would be a crime, the stain of which nothing could wipe
out. Iredale must be confronted, challenged, and----
And so she came to Lonely Ranch on her self-imposed errand of
justice.
The man she sought was not in the house when she came. The valley
seemed to be devoid of life as she rode up. But the solitude was
almost instantly broken by the appearance of Chintz from the region of
the barn. She dispatched him in search of his master and passed into
the bachelor sitting-room to await his coming.
She was restless and her nerves were strung to a great tension. Her
eyes still shone with that peculiar light which ever seemed to look
out of her brother's. There was no yielding in the set of her mouth.
Her resolve disfigured the sweetness which usually characterized her
beautiful features.
She stood before the window, looking out upon the shadow-bathed
valley. She saw before her the dark wall of foliage which rose to the
heights of the Front Hill. Not a living soul was about, only was there
a rising wind which disturbed the unbroken forest of pines. She
turned abruptly from the view as though she could not bear the
solitude which was thus made so apparent. She crossed over to where
the bookcase stood against the wall, and glanced in through the glazed
doors. But she comprehended nothing of what she saw. She was thinking,
thinking, and her mind was in a tumult of hysterical fancies. And she
was listening too; listening for a sound--any sound other than that
which the wind made. Mechanically she came over to the table and leant
against it in an attitude of abstraction. She shivered; she stood up
to steady herself and she shivered again. And all the time the
frenzied eyes gleamed in their beautiful oval setting, the lips were
drawn inwards, and there remained only a sharply-defined line to mark
the sweet mouth. Presently her lips parted and she moistened them with
her tongue. A fever seemed to be upon her, and mouth and throat were
parched.
Suddenly the sound for which she waited came. She darted eagerly to
the window and saw Chintz pass round in the direction of the barn.
Then she saw the burly figure of the man she was awaiting appear in
the clearing fronting the house.
George Iredale came along at a robust gait. He was clad in moleskin
riding-breeches, much stained with clay, as though he had been
digging; a soft shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up above the
elbow; his Stetson hat was adjusted at the correct angle upon his
head; and he wore a pair of tan-coloured field boots, much smeared
with the signs of toil. He came rapidly towards the house. There was
nothing furtive, nothing guilty about this man's bearing; he came
readily to meet his visitor, and his appearance was the confident
bearing of a man who has little to fear.
She saw him look towards the window where she stood, and his
smile of welcome set her nerves tingling with a sensation she
failed to understand. Her hand went round to the pocket of her linen
riding-skirt and remained there. She heard his step in the hall;
she heard him approach and turn the door handle. As he came into
the room she faced him.
"Why, Prudence, this is a delightful----" he began. But she
interrupted him coldly.
"One moment," she said, and her voice was hoarse with the dryness of
her throat. "I have not come over for any visit of pleasure, but
strictly upon a matter of--of--business. There are some explanations
which we both need to make, but more especially you."
"Yes."
Iredale was gazing earnestly into the face before him. He was trying
to fathom the meaning of her coldness. For the moment he wondered;
then, slowly, he began to understand that Hervey had been at work.
"You got my note," he said, choosing to ignore the result of his
observations. "My delay in calling at the farm was unavoidable. I am
in the midst of disposing of my ranch. I had not expected that I
should have been called upon to do so so soon. I beg that you will
forgive me what must seem an unwarrantable delay."
Prudence's nerves were so strung that she felt as though she could
strike him for his calm words. Her condition demanded the opposition
of passion equal to her own. His coolness maddened her. So long had
she dwelt upon the accusation Hervey had brought against him that she
believed in this man's guilt. The evidence of her own senses had
militated against him, and now she steeled herself in an armour of
unbelief. But, in spite of herself, the dictates of her heart were
struggling hard to find the joints of her armour. Nor were the
struggles lessened now that she stood confronting him. His coolness,
though maddening to her, was not without effect. The moral influence
he wielded was great.
She backed to the table; then she plunged into the subject of her
mission without further preamble. Her eyes stared straight into his,
and her tones sounded incisively in the stillness of the room.
"I little knew the man whom I was listening to when he offered me his
life, nor had I an idea of how near I was to the man who inspired the
words which have appeared in the paper--the words which were the last
Leslie Grey ever uttered. What must have been your feelings when I
told you that I knew their author to be a murderer?" Then, with
scathing bitterness: "But your feelings must have long since been
dead--dead as the poor creature you so wantonly sent to his reckoning.
The time has come for you to defend yourself; that is, if defence you
can offer. No flimsy excuse or extenuation will cover you. Even the
Scriptures teach us that the penalty is 'a life for a life.' Yours is
the hand that struck Leslie down, and now you must face the
consequences of your wanton act."
Iredale's quiet eyes never attempted to avoid the girl's direct
gaze, nor did he flinch as the accusation fell from her lips.
Never was he more alert, never more gently disposed towards this
half-demented creature than at that moment. He recognized the hand
that had been at work, and he laid no blame upon her. His feelings
were of sorrow--sorrow for the woman he loved, and sorrow for
himself. But his thoughts were chiefly for her. He knew, as she had
said, that his time had come.
"So Hervey has been to you to sell the discovery which I rejected at
the price he asked. He told you that I was a smuggler; that the
announcement in the paper was mine. And did he tell you that I was the
murderer of Leslie Grey? Or did your heart prompt you to that
conclusion?"
The girl supported herself against the table with one hand, and the
other was still in the pocket behind her. Iredale noted these things
without moving his eyes from her face.
"Hervey told me the facts and the inevitable proof they bore. Nor was
his statement exaggerated. My own reason told me that."
The man sighed. He had hoped that the work had been only of the
brother's doings. He had hoped that she had come bearing Hervey's
accusation and not her own.
"Go on," he said.
"I know you for what you really are, George Iredale. And now I have
come to you to give you the chance of defending yourself. No man must
be condemned without a hearing. Neither shall you. The evidence
against you is overwhelming; I can see no escape for you. But speak,
if you have anything to say in your defence, and I will listen. I
charge you with the murder of Leslie Grey."
Just for one brief moment Iredale felt a shiver pass through his body.
The icy tones of the girl's voice, the seemingly dispassionate words
filled him with a horror unspeakable. Then he pulled himself together.
He was on his defence before the one person in the world from whose
condemnation he shrank. He did not answer at once. He wished to make
no mistake. When at last he spoke his words came slowly as though he
weighed well each syllable before he gave it utterance.
"With one exception all that Hervey has doubtless said of me is true.
I am a smuggler; I inspired that line in the paper; but I am
no--murderer. Leslie Grey's life was sacred to me at the time if only
for the reason that he was your affianced husband. I loved you at that
time as I have loved you for years, and all my thoughts and wishes
were for your happiness. It would have made you happy to have married
Grey, therefore I wished that you should marry him. I am quite
unchanged. I will tell you now what neither you nor Hervey knows, even
though it makes my case look blacker. I knew that Grey was on my
track. I knew that he had discovered my secret. How he had done so I
cannot say. He quarrelled with me, and, in the heat of his anger, told
me of his intentions. It was late one night at a card-party at your
house, and just before he was so foully murdered. No doubt you, or any
right-minded person for that matter, will say that this evidence only
clinches the case against me. But, in spite of it, I assert my
innocence. Amongst my many sins the crime Hervey charges me with"--he
purposely avoided associating the charge with her--"is not numbered.
Can I hope that you will believe me?"
The gentle tones in which the burly man spoke, the earnest fearlessness
which looked out from his quiet eyes, gave infinite weight to all he
said. Prudence shook her head slowly, but the fire in her eyes was
less bright, and the voice of her own heart crying out began to make
itself heard in the midst of her chaotic thought.
She tried to stiffen herself for the task she had undertaken, but the
result was not all she sought Still, she replied coldly--
"How can I believe with all the black evidence against you? You, in
all this region, were the one man interested in Leslie's death. His
life meant penitentiary to you; his death meant liberty. Your own
words tell me that. How can I believe such a denial as you now make?
Tell me, have you no proof to offer? Account for the day on which
Leslie met his death; prove your movements upon that day."
The girl's denial of belief was belied by the eagerness in her voice.
For one brief instant a flash of hope rose in her. She saw a loophole
for her lover. She longed to believe him. But the hope died down,
leaving her worse distracted for its coming.
For Iredale did not speak, and his face assumed a look of gloom.
"Ah, you cannot--you cannot," she went on hysterically. "I might have
known, I did know." A world of passion again leapt into her eyes. Then
something of the woman broke through her anger, and a heart-breaking
piteousness sounded in her voice. "Oh, why, why did you do this thing?
Why did you stain your hands with such a crime as murder? What would
his living have meant to you? At worst the penitentiary. Was it worth
it to destroy thus the last chance of your immortal soul? Oh, God! And
to think of it! A murderer!" Then the fierce anger became dominant
once more. "But you shall not escape. Your crime shall be expiated as
far as human crimes can be expiated. The gallows awaits you, George
Iredale, and your story shall be told to the world. You shall hang
unless you can give to judge and jury a better denial than you have
given to me." She suddenly broke off. A whistling indrawn breath
startled the man before her. She gazed round her wildly; she had
remembered what she had come for. She had forgotten when she had
talked of "judge and jury." Her face assumed a ghastly hue at the
recollection. Her eyes alone still told of the madness that possessed
her.
Nor was Iredale without an uneasy feeling at what he saw--that catch
of breath; that hunted look as she gazed about the room. Intuition
served him in the moment of crisis. What was the meaning? Why was that
hand concealed in her dress? There was only one possible answer to
such questions, and he read the answer aright.
"Prudence," he said, in his deep musical voice, whilst his keen eyes
riveted her attention, "I can prove my innocence of the crime you
charge me with. Listen to me patiently, and I will tell you how. Do
not let your anger drive you to any rash act which might bring
you--lifelong regret."
The girl made a sharp ejaculation. But she did not attempt to
interrupt him.
"I can prove that I was not within three hundred miles of this place
on the day of Leslie's death," the man went on. "That I was in a city
to the west of here distributing"--bitterly--"my wares. I can prove
all this--to you. And I intend that before you leave me to-day you
shall be a witness to my innocence, even against all prejudice. But
before judge and jury it will be different--very different." He
sighed. "There I cannot prove my innocence, for to do so would be to
betray my comrades--those who have traded with me and trusted me--and
send them to the penal servitude which also awaits me." His eyes had
become reflective. He seemed to be talking to himself now rather than
to the woman before him. "No, I cannot save myself at such a cost.
Even to escape the gallows I will not play the part of Judas."
The woman made no reply. She stood staring at him with all that was
best in her shining in her eyes. She was trying to follow his every
word and to take his meaning, and the one thought which dominated her
whole mind was his expressed ability to prove his innocence to her.
He seemed to awake from some melancholy reverie, and again his eyes
sought hers.
"Do you wish me to prove my innocence?"
"Yes; you must--you shall!"
The girl moved from the table; and, for the first time during the
interview, her hand was removed from the pocket in her skirt. Hope
filled the heart in which but now the fires of hell had seemed to
burn. She drank in his words with a soul-consuming thirst The proof!
That was what she required.
Iredale went on with grave gentleness.
"The proof is in here." He moved to the bookcase and opened a secret
recess in the back of it, "In this cupboard."
He produced a pile of books and brought them to the table. Picking out
one he opened it at the date of Grey's death. It was a diary. He read
out the entries for the entire week, all of which bore out his
testimony. Every one was dated at a different town or village, and
related to his sales of opium. He then opened another book and showed
the entries of his sales and the figures. He went through the whole
pile, book after book, and all of them bore out his statement as to
his whereabouts. Then he produced several contracts; these were deeds
between himself and various traders, and were dated at the towns at
which they were signed. Each book and paper he passed on to Prudence
for her scrutiny, drawing her attention to the corroboration in the
evidence. There could be no doubt as to the genuineness of these
facts, and the girl's last shadowy doubts of his innocence evaporated
before the overwhelming detail. The hope which had filled her heart
was now replaced by a triumphant joy. This man had shown her, had
convinced her, and she wanted nothing more at that moment.
She looked up into his face, hoping to see a reflection of her own
happiness in it. But there was no happiness there. His face was calm,
but the melancholy had deepened in his eyes. What she saw came like an
icy douche to her, and the happy expression died upon her lips. She
suddenly remembered that he had said he could not use this evidence to
publicly declare his innocence.
"But----" she began.
He shook his head. He knew that she wished to protest. For a moment
they looked into each other's eyes. Then the woman, the weaker, broke
down under the strain. Tears came to her eyes, and she poured out all
the pent-up grief of her hours of misery.
"Oh, George," she cried, "can you ever forgive my wickedness? I ought
never to have believed. My heart told me that you were innocent; but
the evidence--oh, the evidence. I could see no loophole. Everything
pointed to you--you. And I, wretch that I am, I believed." And the
girl sobbed as though her heart would break. Iredale made no attempt
to soothe her; he felt that it would be good for her to weep. She
leant against the table, and after a while her sobs quietened. Then
the man touched her upon the shoulder.
"Don't cry, Prue; my heart bleeds for you when I listen to your sobs.
You're not to blame for believing me guilty. Twelve jurymen will
shortly do the same, and who can blame them?" He shrugged. "I must
face the 'music' and take my chance. And now, child," he added, his
hand still resting upon her shoulder, and smiling down upon her from
his superior height, "give me that which you have concealed in your
pocket. We will throw it away."
Prudence sprang up and moved beyond his reach.
"No, no! I can't! Don't ask me. Spare me the shame of it. As you love
me, George, don't ask me for it."
"As you will, dear; I merely wished to rid ourselves of an ugly
presence. While we are together--and it may not be for long
now--nothing should come between us, least of all that."
The girl's tears had dried. She looked over at her lover. His
compelling influence was upon her. She paused irresolute; then she
plunged her hand into her pocket and drew forth a large revolver.
"Here, take it. Take it, and do what you like with it" Then she
laughed bitterly. "You know me as I am now. I brought that to shoot
you with, and afterwards to shoot myself. You see, I am a murderess at
heart." And she smiled bitterly.
Iredale took the weapon and placed it in his bookcase. Then he came to
the girl's side and put his arm tenderly about her shoulders.
"Forget it, child; forget it as you would a hideous dream. Your
feelings were forced upon you by--well, through my wretched doings.
That which I have done to gain wealth has brought only what might have
been expected in its train. No work of evil is without its sting, and,
as is always the case, that sting seeks out the most sensitive part of
its victim. The chastisement for my wrongdoing has been inflicted with
cruel cunning, for you, Prue, have been made to suffer; thus is my
punishment a hundredfold greater."
He drew her to him as he spoke, and gently smoothed her dark hair.
Under the influence of his touch and the sound of his voice, the girl
calmed. She nestled close to his side, and for a moment abandoned
herself to the delight of being with him. But her thoughts would not
remain idle for long. Suddenly she released herself and moved to
arm's length from him.
"George," she said, in a tone of suppressed eagerness, "they cannot
try you for--for murder. You will tell them. You will show them
all--these. For my sake, for the sake of all your friends, you will
not let them--condemn you. Oh, you can't allow it. Think," she went
on, more passionately; "no men would willingly let you be declared
guilty when they know you to be innocent. It must not be."
Iredale gave no outward sign. He had turned his face away and was
gazing in the direction of the window. His reflective eyes looked out
upon the valley, but his resolve was written plainly in them.
"Do not tempt me, Prue," he said quietly. "Were I to do otherwise than
I have resolved, and obtained an acquittal thereby, I should live a
life of utter regret. I should despise myself; I should loathe my own
shadow. Nothing could be more revolting to me than the man who plays
the part of a traitor, and were I that man life would be impossible to
me. Think of it only for one moment, sweetheart, and your own good
heart will tell you how impossible is that which you ask me to do. It
cannot be. All the world would despise me. But even so, its utmost
execration would be nothing compared with my own feelings at the
thought that I had saved myself by such methods." He withdrew his hand
from her embrace. "No, when the time comes and I am forced to stand my
trial for Grey's murder, I shall face it. Nor shall I betray my
friends by one single word. And, too, when that time comes there will
not remain one single trace of the traffic which has hitherto been
part of my very existence. There shall be no possible chance of
discovery for those who have trusted me. Your brother Hervey will
never hold his hand. I know that. I realized that when he left me
after seeking 'blackmail.' His vindictive nature will see this
through. And perhaps I would rather have it so. It will then be
settled once and for all. I may get off, but I fear that it will be
otherwise."
At the mention of her brother's name, Prudence started, and the blood
receded from her anxious face, leaving it ghastly in its pallor. She
had forgotten that he was even now on his way to Winnipeg for the
express purpose of denouncing Iredale. For one instant she shook like
an aspen. Then she recovered herself. What was to be done? She tried
to think. This matter of Hervey was of her doing. She had driven him
to it; urged him to it. Now she realized the full horror of what her
foolish credulity had led her into. It had been in her power to stay
his hand, at least to draw his fangs. Now it was too late. Suddenly
she turned upon her lover in one final appeal. At that moment it
seemed the only chance of saving him.
"George, there is a way out of it all; one last resource if you will
only listen to me. You love me even in spite of the way I have wronged
you. You belong to me if only by reason of our love. You have no right
to throw your life away when you are innocent. God knows I honour you
for your decision not to betray your companions. If it were possible,
I love you more than ever. But the sin would be as great to throw your
life away for such a shadow as it would be to deliver your friends up
to justice. You can save yourself; you must. The border is near. We
are right on it. Surely the way you have brought the Chinese into the
country should provide an exit for us. Oh, my poor love, will you not
listen to me? Will you not give me the life I crave? George, let us
go--together."
Her words came passionately. She had stepped forward and placed her
two brown hands upon his great shoulders, and her dark, earnest eyes
gazed lovingly up into his.
The temptation was a sore one, and the man found it hard to resist. He
experienced a sudden rush of blood to the brain. His body seemed to be
on fire. He was pulsating with a mad passion. The thought of what she
suggested came near to overthrowing his sternest resolve. To go with
her. To have her evermore by his side. The thought was maddening.
Surely he had never realized until that moment how dearly he loved
this woman. But his strong nature came to his rescue in time. The
passion had died down as swiftly as it had risen and left him cold and
collected.
He gazed down into the brown eyes ever so kindly, ever so lovingly;
and his answer came in a tone so gentle that the girl felt that
whatever the future might hold for them, this moment had been worth
living for.
"No, no, sweetheart. Not flight, even though you would be my
companion. We love one another dearly, and for that very fact I could
never allow myself to remain under this cloud. At all costs we will
have the matter cleared. I owe it to you, to those at the farm, and to
myself."
The girl's hands dropped to her sides and she turned away. Then all
the agony of her soul found vent in one exclamation.
"Oh, God!" she cried. And with that last cry came the revealing flash
which answered the question she had so repeatedly asked herself. She
turned back to her lover, and the agonized expression of her face had
changed, and in her eyes was the eager light of excitement. Iredale
saw the change, but did not recognize its meaning. He felt that she
must no longer remain there.
"Child, I want you to go back to the farm and tell them of the
accusation that has been brought against me. Tell them all the
circumstances of it. Tell them that I have clearly convinced you of my
innocence; but, as you love me, I charge you not to reveal the manner
in which it was done. Tell your mother that I shall come over
to-morrow, and she shall hear the whole story from my own lips. I wish
to do this that she may hear my version before she reads of what must
happen in the papers. After that I shall go into Winnipeg and set the
law in motion. I will clear myself or--otherwise. But on your honour
you must promise that all I have shown you to-day remains a secret
between us."
Prudence listened intently to all he said, but a quiet look of resolve
slowly crept into her eyes.
"I promise," she said, and Iredale thanked her with a look.
There was the briefest of pauses; then she went on--
"On one condition."
"What do you mean?"
Iredale looked his surprise.
"Now you must hear me, George," she went on eagerly. "You have
charged me with this thing. You must abide by my time. A day more or
less can make little difference to you."
"But I wish to give myself up before others can make the charge."
"Just so. And in the meantime I want your promise not to come to the
farm until the"--she paused to make a swift mental calculation--"day
after to-morrow at four o'clock in the afternoon."
"Tell me your reason."
"That is my own." The girl was smiling now. Then she again became
excited. "Promise, promise, promise! There is no time to lose. Even
now I fear we are too late."
Iredale looked dubiously at her. Suddenly he saw her face darken.
"Promise!" she demanded almost fiercely, "or I will not abide by my
promise to you."
"I promise."
An expression of relief came into Prudence's eyes, and she stepped
towards him and looked up into his face.
"Good-bye, George, dearest."
The man suddenly clasped her in a bear-like embrace and rained
passionate, burning kisses on her upturned lips. Then quietly she
released herself. She stood away from him holding one of his great
hands in both of hers.
"Quick! Now my horse."
Iredale departed, and Prudence was left alone. She stood looking after
him thinking, thinking.
"Can I do it?" she asked herself.
Damside City was the nearest telegraph station. It lay nearly
thirty-five miles due west of Owl Hoot It was merely a grain station
for the district and in no sense a village. She must make that point
and so intercept Hervey with a telegraphic message. It was her one
chance. In spite of her lover she would buy Hervey's silence, and
trust to the future to set the rest straight. She was strong and her
horse was good. She must reach the office before it was closed at six
o'clock that evening. She calculated it up; she had just three hours
in which to cover the distance. She looked out of the window. The wind
was blowing from the east; that was good, it would ease the horse. She
looked up at the sky, there were a few clouds scudding westwards.
"Yes, I'll do it," she said at last, "if it kills poor Kitty."
A moment later Iredale returned with the mare. The girl waited not a
second. Her lover assisted her into the saddle reluctantly. He did not
approve this sudden activity on the part of the girl. When she had
settled herself she bent down, and their lips met in one long,
passionate kiss.
"Good-bye, George."
The man waved his adieu. His heart was too full to speak. She swung
her mare round and galloped down the valley to the north. Her object
was to clear the valley and then turn off to the west on the almost
disused trail to Damside.
Iredale looked after her until the sound of the mare's hoofs died away
in the distance. He was filled with wonder at her strange request and
her hurried departure. But his speculations brought him to no definite
conclusions, and he turned abruptly and called to his man, Chintz.
The man hurried from the stable.
"We have been a little delayed. Is everything ready?" Iredale looked
up at the sky, then down at the grizzled face before him.
Chintz nodded.
"Good. Then get to work. Start the first fire directly beyond the
graveyard to the east. The wind is getting up steadily. You are sure
there are no farms to the west of us, between here and Rosy River?"
The man gave a negative shake of the head.
"That's all right then. There will be no damage done. And the river
will cut the fire off. This time to-morrow we shall be homeless
wanderers, Chintz--you and I." And the smuggler laughed bitterly.
Then his laugh died out.
"Well, to work. Set the fires going."